


Dirty Thoughts

by kikume (Kikume)



Series: Telepathy [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1x7, Boys In Love, First Time, M/M, Potty-Mouth Mickey, Puppy-Dog Eyes Ian, Romance, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikume/pseuds/kikume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian can read minds. Mickey's thoughts are the most interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Thoughts

_Harder. Yeah. So good._

Ian grits his teeth as he slams into Kash from behind, his balls tightening. He’s about to come …

_Linda would never understand, never know how good this feels._

… and just like that, Ian's erection dies a little. The mere mention of Linda—even only in Kash’s thoughts—is enough to make his orgasm flee in fear.

“What? What is it?” Kash pants aloud, wiggling his hips as Ian slows down.

“Nothing. Just … nothing.”  Ian sighs. He can never explain about the mind reading, doesn’t really want to. What seemed so exciting and illicit at first—fucking his married boss, who has a huge dick and smells cleaner than any of the boys at Ian’s school—is now something of a chore. Stocking the feminine hygiene shelf is almost as stimulating.

But there’s not much he can do about it now, like right at this very second with his dick in the guy’s ass. In obedient, would-be soldier fashion, Ian thrusts forward. He stares at a carton of expired milk on the shelf above Kash’s shoulder in an attempt to ignore the older man’s Linda-centric thoughts. The milk shakes with each of Ian’s thrusts, threatens to topple over in an explosion of white sludge.

Kash is of a similar mindset. _Gonna come_ , he thinks. _Never this good with Linda_.

Ian sighs again. He reaches a hand around his boss’s waist and jerks Kash off with dutiful, if unenthusiastic, strokes. Let it never be said that Ian isn't a generous top.

*** 

Home is even worse. Fiona is worried about typical Fiona things: work, money, Steve, money. Steve is worried about typical Steve things: Fiona, cars, some dude named Jimmy. Lip is obsessed with Karen fucking Jackson and her magical vagina.

Then there’s Debbie. Reading his little sister’s thoughts offers a frightening amount of insight into the preteen girl psyche. ( _When am I gonna get my period? Did Jack Fisher glance at me today?_ “Probably not,” Ian mutters in an uncharitable moment, to Debbie’s confusion.)

He tries not to think too hard about Carl’s thoughts. He loves the kid, but the shit that goes through his mind is _messed up_. Frank’s mind is the worst of all. A miasma of booze- and drug-addled schemes. 

It’s all exhausting. Ian looks forward to ROTC and his time at the Kash and Grab purely so he can be around fewer people—or at least people whose thoughts aren't as bruising and immediate as those of his family members.

***

His shift the next day isn't quite the respite he was hoping for.

From her smudged makeup to her ass-baring skirt, Mandy Milkovich is trouble. Her thoughts reinforce this notion.

 _Should I go for a dick grab?_ Ian nearly stumbles off his ladder when he hears this question flit through Mandy's mind. Shit. _Nah, too soon. Don’t wanna scare the kid._

Instead, she opts for a classy fucking-you-with-my-eyes flutter of her lashes. Ian is caught between immobility and shaking like a leaf. He kind of likes Mandy in class, admires how she doesn't take shit from anyone, even asshole male teachers. But he also doesn't know how to deal with girls who are coming on to him, especially so … forwardly.

Part of him wishes he could just close his eyes, think of England, and fuck Mandy Milkovich. She’s pretty in a slutty South Side sort of way. But … no. Just no.

Ian doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know that this is not going to end well.

***

Mickey Milkovich and his idiot brothers are at the Kash and Grab to mete out a beat down—that’s obvious enough.

“I _an_ Galla _ghe_ r!”

Mickey’s thoughts are another telling clue in helping Ian decipher their purpose. _This guy’s so dead. Fucking carrot top thinks he can mess with Mandy and get off scot-free—yeah fucking right. Kid’s got another thing coming. Gonna beat his ass until he can’t fucking move._

Awesome.

Mickey’s mental dialogue continues, _Fuck, I’m hungry. Gotta remember to grab a Snickers from this shithole._

If he wasn't scared shitless, Ian would've laughed. As it is, he makes a beeline for the backroom, heart pounding.

It’s the start of something. The start of a really hellish week spent hiding from the brothers Milkovich, Ian thinks at the time.

*** 

It’s been a shitty week. Ian’s bursting with annoyance—at Kash, at Linda, at Mickey.

“Hey, Mickey.” This is going to get him and Kash killed, but what’s the alternative? Letting Mickey walk all over them? Not gonna happen. “Why don’t you steal from a neighborhood you don’t live in? Have some civic pride, huh?”

That doesn’t go over well. Ian gets smacked with sour cream for his trouble, but doesn’t regret one word of what he said.

“You know where I live if you have a problem,” Mickey tosses back. _Or wanna fuck someone who’s not a middle-aged pansy._

Ian can’t believe his ears. Mind. Whatever. There’s no way he heard what he thinks he heard. Right?

Mickey lets out the mental equivalent of a snort as he walks away. _Ten bucks says baby Gallagher is pounding the hell out of towelhead_ , he thinks to himself with absentminded amusement.

Overhearing, Ian can only let out a brief laugh. Invitation accepted.

*** 

He shouldn’t be here. Is gonna end up with a face full of bruises, probably. But he wants that gun, and if Kash is too much of a pussy to stand up for himself, well … that leaves Ian to take care of business.

Plus, yeah, he’s intrigued by Mickey’s thoughts. Can’t stop thinking about them, actually. The words are on constant replay in his head, when he’s doing chores, at ROTC, jerking off. _You know where I live if you have a problem … or wanna fuck someone who’s not a middle-aged pansy._

He’s so preoccupied with Mickey Milkovich that the usual barrage of other people’s thoughts becomes background noise, easily ignored. If he wasn’t so obsessed, Ian would be relieved.

Right now, he’s just jittery with nerves. His grip around the tire iron is slippery with sweat as he shuffles past Terry Milkovich, who’s spread out on the sofa in classic post-bender Frank style. His thoughts are quiet with sleep. Thank God. The last thing Ian wants is a peek into Terry’s boorish brain.

Mickey’s asleep, too. Ian should look around for the gun or something, but instead he pokes Mickey with the tire iron. He figures this confrontation was gonna happen no matter what—but more importantly, Ian _does_ want a deeper look into the surprising, abrasive mind of Mickey FUCK U-UP Milkovich.

When Mickey grumbles into wakefulness, Ian doesn’t let down his guard. Mickey seems agreeable, but his thoughts tell a different story— _fuck this twerp_ being the primary sentiment.

Even after reading Mickey’s thoughts, Ian isn’t expecting him to be so fucking scrappy. Which is stupid, because _Milkovich_. What was Ian expecting, a polite “hey, Gallagher, I’m going to beat your fucking face in now, please and thank you”? Yeah, right.

For a minute or two, Ian is genuinely scared that he’s misjudged the situation. He’s hyper aware of Mickey’s thoughts, trying to get a read on whether the older boy plans to kill him. Too bad Ian is kind of distracted by getting the shit beat out of him, and Mickey’s not thinking straight anyway, his mind muddled by sleep and the suddenness of the fight.

It’s when Mickey’s poised above Ian—tire iron in hand, half-hard dick in Ian’s face—that one clear thought breaks through like a ray of sunshine: _fuck, this is kinda turning me on._

Bingo. Ian’s lips part—half in surprise, half in anticipation—as he glances from Mickey’s dick to his face. Mickey looks back, breathing hard. Almost instantly, Ian feels his own dick perk up. With unspoken mutual agreement, they start shucking off clothes.

One of the benefits of reading minds is that Ian knows right away that Mickey is a bottom. _Jesus fuck,_ Mickey thinks as Ian starts palming the older boy’s dick, just reveling in how hot and hard it is _._ Ian can’t get over the fact that he’s touching Mickey Milkovich’s cock and—shit—Mickey is _letting him._

Mickey is less shell shocked. _If this kid doesn’t get in me soon …_

Ian has never been happier to overhear a private thought. His 15-year-old hormones are all over the place; he’s practically vibrating with excitement as Mickey offers up his ass.

Mickey hurries them through the preliminary pleasantries of fucking: lube, preparation, condom. Ian curls two Vaseline-coated fingers in Mickey’s ass, stretching and searching. His other hand touches as much of Mickey’s skin as he can—jutting hip bones, dripping cock, sheet-gripping knuckles—because hell, this might be the only chance he gets.

“Fucking hurry up, man,” Mickey says. He groans when Ian’s fingers hit the spot they’re looking for.

 “But don’t you need more—”

“Clock’s ticking, Goldilocks,” Mickey says before Ian can finish. “I don’t got all day.”

That suits Ian fine. He’s so _on_ that he could probably come just from the sight of Mickey bent over the bed, eager for Ian’s cock. Trying to calm his racing heart (and raging hard-on), Ian removes his fingers and lines himself up with Mickey’s asshole.

“’Bout time,” Mickey grunts as Ian slams all the way in. His voice is more blissed out than grumpy, and Ian smiles as he begins to thrust.

Not surprisingly, Mickey fucks the way he thinks: fast and to the point. There are no waffling caresses, as Ian is used to with Kash. To Ian’s intense relief, Mickey also doesn’t think about Mandy, or anyone else for that matter. No, Mickey is all about the here and now.

_Fuck, get it, Gallagher. Didn’t know fucking carrot top had it in him. Dude fucks like a freight train._

Ian smirks into Mickey’s neck, insanely pleased with himself. He redoubles his efforts, stuttering his hips into Mickey’s with battering force. Mickey grunts his appreciation into his pillow.

 _That’s it. Fuck yeah, man, just like that. Jesus, this kid’s_ dick _…_

… is harder than it’s ever been. Ian is glad that his own thoughts are private, because he does _not_ think like he fucks. And Mickey probably wouldn’t like what Ian is thinking.

Ian wants to kiss Mickey—like, really badly. Wants to test his theory that Mickey tastes like beer, smoke, and chocolate. Wants to rub his fingers over the dirt smudges on Mickey’s chest and lick them away. Wants to chase beads of sweat down Mickey’s spine with his tongue. Wants to—hell—wants to sit and drink beer with Mickey, and talk about anything or nothing at all.

Ian Gallagher is a dead man.

Even so, he’s not suicidal. So instead of indulging all those wants, Ian contents himself with tiny butterfly kisses against Mickey’s neck that the older boy probably can’t even feel. Mickey’s skin is moist with sweat, and Ian resists the urge to tongue away the moisture. _Aw, fuck it_ , Ian thinks. He presses one sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the place where Mickey’s neck and shoulder blade meets.

 _Ian fucking Gallagher_ , Mickey thinks as he shoots his load all over the already stained bed sheets.

Ian comes like clockwork.

***

After, they huddle under the blankets, sides touching and hips brushing. The sheets are sticky against Ian’s skin, but he barely notices. His attention ping-pongs between Mickey’s thoughts and those of a farting, pissing Terry Milkovich.

Mickey: _Fuuuuck. I’m dead. Dad’s gonna fucking kill me._

Terry: _Ahhhhh, yeah. Nothing like taking a piss in my own fucking house._

Mickey: _At least I got a solid fucking lay out of it. If my old man’s gonna pistol whip me_ again _, I may as well have earned it. Not like last time. Shit, I didn’t even_ know _they were his fucking Fruit Loops. It’s cereal, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell beats someone over an empty box of cereal?_

Terry lumbers out of the bathroom. “Mandy’s making eggs.”

Mickey: _Yeah? Great. Too bad I’m not gonna get to fucking enjoy them when you beat my ass for taking it up the ass._  

It’s hard to say whether Ian or Mickey is more surprised (and relieved) when Terry leaves with little more than a parting comment about how much they look like fags.

 _If you only knew, Pops_ , Mickey thinks as he lets out a breath.  

Minutes later, when the gun he’s come here to retrieve is dropped on Mickey’s bed, Ian doesn’t see it coming. Nothing In Mickey’s thoughts suggested that he was going to be anything but an asshole about the stolen gun. The gesture is almost sweet.

And, okay, Ian promised himself that he wouldn’t do this. But he can’t help himself, not when his bruised eye is starting to ache like a love bite. Not when Mickey rubs a thumb against his full lower lip in a way that’s just pure sex. It’s too much. So Ian leans forward, eyes puppy-dog hopeful and lips slightly parted.

Mickey shuts him down instantly. “Kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Right. Fair enough. Not like Ian didn’t see that coming. But he can’t help the faint sting of disappointment that douses the euphoria in his belly.

His good mood is salvaged somewhat by Mickey’s thoughts, which Ian puts special effort into overhearing. _This kid is gay as fuck. Does he think we’re gonna cuddle now or some shit? Exchange cell numbers? Bitch, please._

Pause.

_Fuck, though, that hair. Carrot top needs to ditch the Bieber haircut and freckles or get the fuck out of South Side. Too God-damn precious for his own fucking good …_

Ian smiles widely, then winces; the action makes his injured cheek hurt like a bitch. But the good parts are worth the pain. Ian already knows that much.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comments are nice. Should I continue this with, say, season 2, 3, and 4 Gallovich scenes, or pretend this weird telepathy story never happened? ;)


End file.
